


forgetmenot

by Mossbeast



Category: Bleach
Genre: Anxiety, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mental Health Issues, Other, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, as in we don't, dark themes, does this count as horror or is this crack, dubious storytelling, happy valentine's day, no beta we die like Kurosaki Ichigo, slightly disconcerting, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29449701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossbeast/pseuds/Mossbeast
Summary: Ichigo picks up a weird little thing in Urahara's little shop. Soon after, things start to happen. At least he's no longer alone.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	forgetmenot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murderlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderlight/gifts), [junichiblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junichiblue/gifts).



> hello hi I'm late for v day in my timezone but I'm preeetty sure it's still the 14th in like, USA or something. I saw a lot of dumb things at work today, this is entirely on murderlight and junichiblue because _neither of you stopped me_. 
> 
> enjoy. mouldy murder sponge boyfriend. from the server. I did it.
> 
> this is what you get for dragging new people into the server murder.

Urahara's is a strange, dusty little shop in the old town, hidden in a maze of crooked little streets, broken street lights and stinking dumpsters that somehow never seem to get emptied, regardless of how often Ichigo finds his feet dragging him to the decrepit building. There isn't much that Ichigo could even want or need from the store - the candy they sell is stale, the stickers have lost most of their color and the entire place smells a little dusty and like stale sweat. It's not a nice shop, by any means, the patrons are weird and the shop keeper, his perhaps wife and children and the housekeeper are strange people who always look at each other in a way that makes Ichigo feel like he's some joke or punchline. The feeling is deeply uncomfortable and normally Ichigo would run like hell, but there's just something about the place that keeps dragging him back.  
He does sound a little like a whining child, he realizes, or perhaps like a chick from one of those supernatural romance stories Yuzu loves so much. And isn't that an annoying realization? A deep sigh leaves his chest and he kicks a few pieces of gravel over the cracked sidewalk. The neighborhood is not the best, house fronts are cracked, paint is chipping and has paled. Many windows are firmly boarded shut, trash litters the doorways and corners. It's smelly, especially in the heat of late August, black trashbags flowing over the brims, boiling up under the intense temperatures. Flies swarm the air, and supply the only noise. It's overwhelming, really. But his feet drag him on, through the stifling air, the awful noise and over cracked pavement and dried out blades of grass.

Inside the little shop it's cool, although the air is as still and heavy as it was outside. The pricks of being watched never quite leave Ichigo's back, but he shrugs it off. It's not all that unusual to feel like someone's lurking over his shoulders in Urahara's Shoten, but today it's especially bad. Ichigo turns away from colorful candies in questionable flavors and finds himself almost nose to nose with the shopkeeper, a rather tall man with a shaggy patch of blonde hair on his head and always clad in the same old green kimono thing and striped bucket hat, as well as traditional wooden sandals on his feet. The lower half of his face is obscured by a dingy little green fan, the other hand tightly clutches a walking stick that Ichigo has never seen used as a mobility aid.

"Kurosaki-kun! What a pleasant surprise to see you here on this lovely day! Are you looking for anything in particular?", the shopkeeper asks. His fan drops a little to reveal a comically wide grin. A little further and it might actually look wrong, threatening. A grotesque copy of a smile. Despite the late August heat, an uncomfortably cold shiver runs down Ichigo's spine. Something feels wrong today, even more so than usual. But there's nothing out of the ordinary going on, at least not that he can tell.  
"Nothing special, Urahara-san", he laughs it off, scrubbing at his bright hair. God he hates it. It's a beacon and the most identifying of his features. It looks like he took a bottle of bleach to typical black Japanese hair and left it to work its magic only half the recommended time. Thankfully Urahara never dropped a word about it, and neither did any of the shop inhabitants or patrons, but it is a massive sore spot and Ichigo is always, always aware of it, everywhere he goes.  
"We just got some new things", the shopkeeper trills, twirling around. The movement looks small, but his pants and kimono jacket thing flare out, like Yuzu's summer dresses do when she turns quickly for Karin to take pictures for some social network or other. But where Yuzu has to turn several times to get this effect, the half turn is enough for Urahara. Normally Ichigo would chalk it off but he's on edge today, he still feels like he's being watched and he doesn't appreciate how close the shopkeeper got without him noticing. A lifetime of being bullied has left its traces, exceptional awareness of his surroundings is one of the more prominent ones. Also one of those he doesn't mind as much. Aggression, apprehension and anxiety? He could do without those. One day, he keeps telling himself, one day he will meet new people and not try to be as subdued and normal as possible, but himself. He will freely admit to loving literature and magical girl anime (courtesy of Karin), to hating doing the dishes and loving the repetitive motions of shaping gyoza or forming balls of cookie dough.

Like the idiot he is, Ichigo follows the mad shopkeeper. The box Urahara-san procures looks like a normal cardboard shipping box, wrapped haphazardly with what surely amounts to half a roll of adhesive tape, a smudged shipping label slapped on without any sense of straightness, a few _fragile_ prints all over. The tape has been cut at the top and the box is open. Inside are a bunch of small figures, dinosaurs, robots, cats, anything really. It really isn't anything Ichigo would need, ever. He politely tells the shopkeeper.  
"Oh but these are special, Kurosaki-kun!" The green fan is up in Urahara's face again. "These grow! You have to love them and firmly believe that they will come to life!"  
Ichigo snorts, but decides to humor the shopkeeper. He's probably the most clientele Urahara's has seen this year, and any businessman is eager to keep clients attached to their store, Ichigo tells himself. He rifles through the box, not really interested but he's doing this to keep a polite appearance. He's crouched down because the box is still half under the counter, his t-shirt drags uncomfortably against his sweaty back, and his feet are tingly from cut off blood supply. Just when he says it's enough, his middle finger catches in a hole and he pinches whatever figure there is between middle finger and ring finger to pull it out.

It's a tiny man with sky blue hair, a weird carnivore jaw on the right half of his face and a hole punched through his stomach. It looks like some action figure misproduction instead of whatever Urahara is trying to sell him.  
"Interesting choice! I did not expect you to pick him!", the shopkeeper croons - _and why does the voice in his head insist that Urahara-san isn't talking to him?_  
The man in question floats around the counter and rings up the figure, even though Ichigo hasn't even decided if he wants to buy it.  
"That'll be 2,000 yen", Urahara informs him with a smile so fake and sweet that Ichigo just wants to drop everything and leave, to never return. But he digs through his wallet for the money instead before hightailing out of the shop and making his way back home as quickly as possible without actually running.

Back at his apartment he tosses his keys and wallet into the little bowl on the set of drawers right next to the door and his shoe rack, steps into the living room to yank his shirt over his head before making his way into the tiny, cramped bathroom to splash some water on his face. The weird, almost oppressive feeling is gone but he still has the sensation of being watched, tiny pinpricks that run down his spine. Oh well. Maybe it's summer flu, he muses. It's making everyone's life hell at the clinic where he still helps out every now and then. That, and all the massive temperature differences he puts himself through every day, going inside cool, shady buildings, sometimes even with an AC unit or five to keep temperatures down, just to step back outside into the sweltering, late August heat and sun. His dad always says that sensitivity to temperature changes becomes more prominent with age. Granted, Isshin probably referred to their sixty year old patients and not Ichigo with his barely adult 24 years, but the thought is soothing and allows him to shrug it off. Upon returning to the living room he sees the little figure he bought (2,000 Yen for an action figure... Who even buys broken toys this expensive?), laying face down on the floor. Apparently it got yanked out of his pocket when he tore off his t-shirt, but he supposes that just happens. He picks it up, brushes a little dust off it and sets it on the shelf he reserved especially for knickknacks he picked up at Urahara's.

The first week or so he still notices the figurine, but soon it melts into the background of an apartment he barely sees with all the time he spends between university courses and hours as a clinic aid. Months later he's got a weekend off, finally, and takes a look around his place. Its untidy and has only been haphazardly cleaned, so he decides to put his time off to good use.

Dusting the shelves brings forth treasures long forgotten, a small charm or bead animal from his sisters, postcards and photographs from his friends, little stones or twigs from his more eccentric friends, and lastly the knickknacks from Urahara's. The second he sees the little figurine it's like all of his braincells can only focus on it. _Him_.

Ichigo sets the swiffer aside and picks the figure up to properly look at it. Even though it is broken, someone clearly created it with a lot of love. There's a stunning amount of detail, the hair looks like single strands and the weird jawbones actually can be moved separately. There's a large Gothic number six on his ridiculously muscular back, peeking out from under the white bolero jacket. The white hakama's folds have been shaped with great care. Even though they're from some stiff yet still soft foam material, they look almost real. The boots look a little out of place, Ichigo notices, but perhaps these action figures have their own lore and the footwear makes sense. He goes back to studying the face. It's very even and symmetric, probably meant to look extraordinarily pretty and perhaps just a touch uncanny. He definitely is pretty. If this was a real person's face, Ichigo would probably run away as far as he can because he's awkward and shy, and talking to physically attractive people gives him anxiety. Ichigo focuses back on the figure in his hands. There are teal markings under the bright blue eyes that somehow make everything look sharper. The catlike angle of the eyes themselves, to the pointed teeth of the mask, to the strictly black and white outfit. Ichigo studies the angry expression for a bit until he notices the little piece of paper on the shelf, where the figurine had originally stood.  
Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, sexta Espada  
He turns the paper, surprised to find an instruction on how to soak the figurine to make him grow. Ichigo picks Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez up again and stares at him, hard, before deciding that he doesn't have anything to lose. He takes the figure into the kitchen, along with the instructions, cleaning entirely forgotten.

The large measuring cup is the biggest container he has, so he places Grimmjow in it and fills the cup, setting it on the counter afterwards. Something in him is extremely excited about the toy, perhaps a remnant of his childhood obsession with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or generally a sign that he's losing his mind. Either way, he sticks to the pitcher and watches, and waits. For two whole hours he lurks at the kitchen counter, scrubbing at the cabinets at all times in a pretense task. He's nowhere near cleaning the kitchen in his usual run, but it's cleaner than it's ever been. And the figure doesn't _grow_. Ichigo sighs and calls it a day an hour after his usual bedtime. He thinks about throwing out the water, but in the end - it's not going to hurt anyone if he leaves the figurine in the water, right? 

The next morning he's pleasantly surprised to see the figure has almost quadrupled comapred to the original size, effectively meaning Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez' shoulders and head peek over the pitcher now and his face looks a little less angry. At least Ichigo thinks it does. He puts a slice of bread in the toaster and while he waits for the machine to heat up his breakfast, he pulls Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez out of the pitcher, dries him off and carefully puts him on the shelf with the other Urahara knickknacks. He towers over them and Ichigo swears the figurine looks content. Which is nonsense because his face wears the same smirk it did yesterday, just larger. Maybe the growing part went a bit wonky. He turns to his breakfast and slowly gets ready for lectures. There's a prick of being watched at the back of his neck, slowly making its way down his spine like a pinwheel. It's highly uncomfortable, and something compels him to close his bedroom door as he dresses himself. The week devolves into a hectic mess after that - at least the feeling of being watched rescinds - and one evening Ichigo notices Grimmjow shrunk back to the tiny original size. He looks even more grumpy now, his shoulders ar no longer relaxed in a stance of pure arrogance and self-assuredness, but much rather tense and about to explode. Probably the same thing like with the facial expression, he decides, and pulls out the largest pot he has because his pitcher still needs cleaning.  
"Sorry man", Ichigo says, as he puts the toy in the water. Then he wants to slap himself for talking to a toy. But it feels weird to just do things and pretend that's perfectly normal, too. He hates the limbo he's in, hates the insecurities, the feeling of not being alone.  
"I'll just let you sit in there for a few days, see how tall you can get. That sound alright?" He sighs, before shaking his head. "I might actually be going insane so just... ignore me, will you?" He picks up the pot and takes it into his bedroom, before falling onto his mattress and drifting off to sleep, stil half dressed. He's incredibly tired, but right before the dreams take over there's the prickling feeling of someone watching. Probably just lack of sleep, nothing more. At least that's what he tells himself as he drifts off into a restless sleep. He dreams of sky blue hair and electric blue eyes, manic laughter and sharp teeth at his neck. Ichigo awakes with a raging hardon and massive confusion. He's never really been a sexual person but the whispers of last nights' dream cling tight and follow him. And it's not the only one. It's Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, the action figure from Urahara's shop, who occupies his mind during every sleeping minute and robs him of every ounce of energy. 

He loses track of time pretty quickly, again, until one day he oversleeps so late that he just decides to fuck it and ditch uni for the day, to just gather himself together again. He spends the day deep cleaning his apartment, icy shivers running down his back the entire time and he can't tell what's got him so panicked. It's like there's an oppressive haze spanning the place, one that crawls deeper into his lungs with every breath, trickles into his bloodstream and from there on moves through his body, turning his limbs into lead and disconnecting the nerves that could transport sensations of his surroundings to his brain. He slams his elbow against the door frame and barely notices until he fails to pick up a cup because the nerves are still unable to tell his fingers to grasp. Only then the pain really registers, radiating from his elbow up to his shoulder and down into his fingertips. Ichigo sighs wearily before making his way back to his bed, not even bothering to get out of his clothes. They smell like sweat and cleaning agents, slightly damp and uncomfortable, sticking to his skin and cloying his nose with the smell of wet cotton. 

Late at night, he jerks awake, panting harshly and tugging at his shirt because it feels like it's choking him. The smell of wet cotton has become stronger, but he's too tired to deal with it, and just tugs off his shirt before dropping back onto his pillow. When he closes his eyes, the darkness encroaching on him isn't kind or welcome, but threatening, looming. Something about it feels final, a lot more serious and his thoughts suddenly start racing, incredibly fast, his body tingles and he can't breathe, he can't, he _can't_ -

A cool, damp hand covers his mouth firmly, smothering his cries. Ichigo tries to struggle, but everything gets cooler by the second, a breath of eucalyptus and euphoria streaming through his veins. He relaxes, and lets the night consume him.

**Author's Note:**

> All I want to leave about my work day is: if you know you're allergic to something, please don't put it on your genitals because you want to spice up oral sex. It's not worth it. Also any explanation will make you look dumb I swear. Just don't. Thanks <3
> 
> And thank you for reading.


End file.
